Gone From Me
by Burnedtoasty
Summary: G1: The space between Skyfire's crash and the rise of the Decepticons. Gunning for least inspired summary ever.


**Disclaimer**: _I, in no way, shape, or form, own the Transformers© franchise or the characters it contains. All publicly recognizable characters are copyrighted to Hasbro, and the respective artists/writers/et cetera. No infringement intended._

**Continuity**: G1 (Generation One), with a wee bit of IDW's _Megatron: Origins_.

**Characters**: Starscream, Megatron

**Warnings**: Past-tense slash, minor spoilers for _Megatron: Origins,_ and mild violence. Extreme doses of woe, perhaps.

**Author's Note**: Can you tell _M:O_ is my favorite IDW title or what? Heh. This was actually a part of the '5 Skyfire-Starscream' I've been putting together. It ended up freakishly mutating though and growing into this abomination you see before you, so, hey, angst for all. Not in 'canon' with the other Starscream x Skyfire drama-o-rama set up here, it's silly, it's crack, and it was just for the heck of it to see if I could, so don't read too far into it. I like my 'cons mean and vicious and surly. Experimentation. Yay.

Criticism encouraged, technical points preferable.

--

It had been a week.

Most had passed in a blur; he had been energy-deprived, mad and raving as he was dragged from the wreckage of his fall. He remembered questions, faces bobbing in and out of view but never the _right_ one. Confused flashes of color, almost-beings, they were, things beyond meaning. It was too bright here, too much light to be real. He was still in that nothingness between suns, processor shorting as it scrambled to save data tracks, pulling resources and pulling inward in a last ditch attempt to preserve his spark.

They pried open his head, rifled through the shuffled and reshuffled memories, baffled by the gaps. Time had been lost, circumstances hazy and situations unknown filling in the blank places. Parts of himself given up to protect the whole; wasn't supposed to be aware, now, supposed to be in stasis lock, should have been long ago. Overrode his protocols, very dangerous to do. Used so much energy to find a way back, had to give something away. Couldn't get something for nothing.

"Where is he? Where is Skyfire?" the colors asked, and he tried to speak, to tell them, but he had lost his words somewhere out in that darkness, and, oh, he was _gone_, gone away. Lost somewhere white and cold, far from here.

And they didn't understand these sensation-things, these thoughts without substance. And they went away again, leaving him to his memory loops and delirium and frantic searching.

--

Time moved on and away, and his physical condition stabilized. The questions came faster, always the same. He explained it to them, in starts and stops with broken words, but they didn't understand, so he stopped trying. He wished that they let him go, let him go back to the place without colors, and he was so sorry, Skyfire. So, so sorry. He didn't _mean_ to lose him, but there was so much land and so little energy, and…

"Poor thing, mind's cracked under the trauma," One sympathetic spark crooned, patting his hand fondly. "Can't be helped if he's going to withdraw. Can't help them that don't want to be."

He snarled at the presumption, and yanked free, staring mindlessly at the ceiling. The croon turned to a pitying 'tut-tut', and the mechanism departed.

It was only when he was alone that the emptiness came back.

--

When at last he had been deemed well enough to warrant it, the board called together for a debriefing. They asked what planets they had gone through, how far they had gone, what energy resources they had found, and whatever trivialities crossed their minds. He answered their queries, recited the expected responses, watched them grow ever more flustered as they danced around the question they had been asking since he had fallen through their ceiling cycles and cycles ago.

"And… of your partner?" At last, the awkward inquiry, the averted optics. "What has happened to Skyfire?"

There was no hesitation. "Dead," Said Starscream, flatly, having already answered the question a thousand times in his mind, rehearsing for this inevitability. "Lost during entry. His spark extinguished on impact." It had to be true, he had already said it, and he wouldn't have said it if it wasn't so.

No one could survive that long without energon. Skyfire was unlikely to have even lived through the crash into that terrible ice. No, Starscream knew the truth of it. Skyfire was long dead and gone, crashed on some distant alien world, gone away. He had searched so hard, so long, there was no way Skyfire could be found. As good as dead.

How could he live with himself otherwise?

And the board members nodded sadly, and murmured their condolences for the loss of such a brilliant mind, a valued colleague, and he accepted the kind but meaningless gestures absently. Duty done, they logged in the meeting, wrote out the report of Skyfire's loss, with Starscream providing a voucher. Out they expelled him, back into the chaos of the masses, telling him to go home, take some time to recover, they'd see to everything. No need to rush back now, not with the grief so fresh. Not with so many unnerving questions remaining of his involvement.

After all, they didn't say, Skyfire never crashed before.

Yes, he wouldn't reply, he never did, did he?

--

Somehow, he had ended up back at the dwelling they had shared. He punched in the code, and the door opened, and it was all exactly as they had left it, only… not. Everything was too big inside, too empty, and something vital was missing. He wandered in circles for joors, searching restlessly, staring at familiar objects with vague unease of an unwelcome guest.

He was lost in these walls. It was not his home.

He had wanted to recharge – it seemed he was always tired, anymore – but the berth was too big, and he couldn't bring himself to go near it. Could barely stand to even look at it. In the end, he abandoned the attempt, instead simply recharging on the floor rather than bear its loathsome touch.

So he lived, in a timeless haze, directionless and purposeless. He tried to bring himself to go out, to be lost in society, or perhaps to fling himself into the arms of a stranger, or to find… something. But the thought did not appeal, and he did not leave, and stayed in this alien place he sometimes called _Here._

--

Eventually he gathered himself again, moved beyond the blurred half-meaning of _concepts_ and into sharp-edged _words_. He was not in mourning – it seemed all emotion was drained from him, leaving only this formless sense of loss. No, he had done all his grieving in space, half-mad with starvation, floating through static and after-images. That chapter of his life was finished, sealed away. No returning.

This place, these _things_ did not matter to him. This domicile was from another existence and another being, and held no importance to him.

But where to go, now?

He went back to the institute, back to the labs, spent as much time there as he could. They ushered him in with vacant smiles, saying it was good he was getting back into his work, another step in the healing process, and it was best just to move on past this unpleasantness. Oh, yes, of course, they'd try to get him up and out as soon as possible, but, well, you know how these things are, bureaucrats and all. Had to go through the proper channels, and, really, the investigation was merely a formality. Standard procedure in such questionable— er, _unusual_ circumstances. Had to comply with regulations; couldn't just ignore such things, heavens, no.

There was naught to worry about. It would come to nothing, these things rarely did. Couldn't prove anything, with such little evidence against him.

Of course, they couldn't disprove anything, either.

--

They gave him busywork, comfort work, undemanding little projects he could finish in his own time. Cooperative with their wishes – and promised empathetically it was but a temporary state of affairs – he requested easily attainable materials, built inane little inventions.

For a while, it was enough.

Occasionally some foreign face would appear, interrupting his solitude, and speak to him as if what they had to say mattered. They spoke of the inquiry, how it was winding down, and soon enough they'd be putting him back on the roster. The institute was in bad form, losing funds. All the easily accessible planets had gone dry; they were having to venture further, halting projects for the sake of energon. A few tentatively asked if he had ever seen any likely prospects. After all, most of the data he had supplied upon his return was disjointed, hardly comprehensible. His navigation system had been terribly compromised, and they had not been able to trace his route.

Perhaps, if he remembered where he had gone last…?

No, he always said. He didn't remember where they had gone, and besides, everyone knew those planets were dead anyhow.

And they would nod, and go away, and he'd go back to staring at whatever occupied his desk at that time.

Enough to live with, in any case.

--

They shook their heads in quiet groups, saying _such a shame_, and _poor thing_, with pity writ large across their faces. Unfortunate, all of it. Just as well that he had come back, and thrown himself into his work. Best to keep busy, yes, after such a tragedy, the poor dear. Had to learn to move beyond such things, and he had taken it so well. Such a shame to lose Sky like that, and under such bizarre conditions, even as unforeseeable as it had been. Though, how odd that they were that far out of their way. And stranger still that Skyfire, who was so cautious and intelligent and quick, had gone in hot, like an inexperienced sparkling. A little suspicious, that.

But if there was anything to find, the authorities would uncover such truths, verifying the authenticity of the lone survivor's statement. It was, after all, their function to do such a thing, and if there wasn't anything to find, well…

Still.

It bore some looking into.

--

Inevitably, he grew restless, and bored, and subsequently destructive. Creation held no appeal. He broke whatever he made, twisted it until it shattered, and grew surly, then still, shoved everything that ceased to please him onto the floor. He became infatuated with the little pieces of metal strewn about his workplace, liked to step on them sometimes for the raw crunch.

His neighbors complained of the noise, and the haphazard junk that began to pile out in the hall. When confronted about these grievances, he sneered at them, shouted down their protestations, insisting they to go back to their own workstations and leave him to his projects.

Reports of altercations began to come in more frequently, even accounts of a more heated squabbles escalating into physical blows, always started by the offending party. Mortified by the scandalous behavior – and threats of resignation issued from a great number of the staff – the institute took steps to curb such behavior.

They pulled his funding, his equipment, allotting him only the basest objects to tinker with as they worked on acquiring a new partner. It was for the greater good, they said, stipulated in his contract. There was a near famine on Cybertron, and they could not afford to lose experienced mechanisms when there were worlds that still may have enough resources to bolster Cybertron until a permanent solution was found. He told them he didn't need anyone else, he could do it on their own if they would let him, and they informed him that policy said otherwise.

When he gave his not so gracious opinion of that, they told him, frankly, no one wanted to work with such a impertinent, spiteful mechanism, even one as reputed as himself. It would be a long time, indeed, before he was going to be allowed off-planet, and longer still before they trusted him enough to go about unsupervised. It was distasteful enough, having to put up with his incivility, and his abusive temperament, without having to bother with these pointless quarrels amongst the staff.

One day, he simply did not go back. And so went the next, and the next after that.

And, all at once, he realized that he was never going to go there again.

--

It was then that the pain started.

It a little ache, somewhere around his spark chamber. First just enough to be noticeable, just enough to distract him, and gradually it began to crescendo into a dull throb. He would absently rub at his hurting chest, mouth pulling down into an expression of unease.

As the cycles passed, it began to grow sharper, more insistent. Enough to gall him into tracking down a state-employed technician, demanding an examination.

Theoretically, there was nothing really _wrong_, in the well qualified technician's opinion. Nothing fixable, in any case. He'd get used to it, in time. Lucky thing he wasn't that far along in the bond-building; losing his partner might have deactivated him otherwise. He should be happy he only had this slight impairment. Some mechs withdrew completely, falling into their alternate and gradually expiring.

Yes, he should be grateful for all he had.

--

Somehow, he found himself in the slums, fallen in with a surging crowd. They shouted and shoved and jostled, wicked exultation told in the gleam of over-bright optics. Enigmatic sigils were emblazoned on their bodies, badges designating teams and factions and rivalries, proudly displayed for all to see. He envied them that, the bold emblems that so effortlessly could declare an individual. He seethed at their delight, their ceaseless, excited chatter as he was swept along with them. His group grew, merged with others, as they were funneled in the secretive tunnels, deep into the new-made arena. Those he had followed were dispersed into the throng, and he found himself alone among the horde.

He stood, a part of the host – simply one more upturned face in a sea of anonymous mechanisms – as they watched the stage grow slick with fresh-spilled energon, and listened to the crunch and clatter of illegal combat. Credits were tossed from hand to hand, bets placed and stacked. Cries and calls echoed in the hollow, temporary hideaway, every mechanism's face obscured by oscillating lighting and the need to remain nameless.

He should have been horrified. Every part of his reasoning mind said he should have been making a break for the exit, before they were caught, before a brawl broke out amongst the spectators. That it was too dangerous, too brutal, too _wrong_.

But their frenzied fervor woke something in him. He cheered, basked in the thrill of the spectacle, the frightening, exhilarating allure of the illicit. Mech fluid spilled across the crowd, and the shouts rose up in a ghoulish chant, the actual words lost in the roar.

Something inside his spark jumped and surged, feasting on the violence, as he satisfied a wanting he had not realized he had had. Each blow shook something inside of him, every bellow of delight and agony seemed a seductive call, rattling a _something_ free.

He _felt_ again. Felt euphoric, vindicated, _alive_. This, _this _was more right than he could remember anything being for so long.

The final blow was struck, and the screams of the crowd hammered at his audios, the vibration of the collective voices running over his frame like the hands of ghosts.

"Who is that?" He asked a mechanism beside him, shouting to be heard.

The Tarn-build grinned lewdly, glancing away from the remaining fighter to sweep his lone optic over Starscream's body. "Hey there, flybot." He scooted closer to be better heard, his headlights flashing coyly. "Looking for some company?" Presumptuously, he put his hand up, set it on Starscream's arm, came in closer, crowding the Seeker.

Starscream pretended not to hear, guilelessly inquiring, louder, "Who is that?" and jabbing a finger toward the star-bright stage.

The cyclopean mechanism glanced aside, his hand falling back to his side with a flicker of disgruntlement. "Him? That's Megatron. New guy, crowd favorite," He looked away again, realizing that this avenue of exploration would amount to nothing, and not wanting to miss a moment for pointless flirting.

"Megatron?" Starscream echoed curiously, though his informant had ceased to pay attention.

The powerful mechanism turned, throwing his energon-slick arms up to the crowd, his mouth twisted in a brutal, beautiful smile-snarl. His optics shown a bright, bloody red, alive with slaughter, still caught up in the moment of termination. Stark against the tarnished silver of his chest, a purple sigil glowered, all sharp angles and hard lines, a thing that would cut you if you but touched it. He bellowed at the ecstatic crowd, roared challenge and triumph, glowing with another's life's fluids.

For the first time in eons, it seemed, the beginnings of an honest smile pulled at the corners of Starscream's lips. His optics brightened, focused in on that cryptic sigil exhibited so brazenly.

So quiet he could not even hear himself over the shriek of protesting metal:

"Megatron."


End file.
